It was one of the first days of the New Year.

The Christmas tree was still flickering in the corner, storing meager reserves of the forest spirit under its wide skirt, fingers still smelled of tangerines, and the remains of the festive table were quietly spoiling in the refrigerator; wishes for happiness were still foaming with frantic spells, and dreams were not interrupted by the mechanical zeal of the alarm clock, friends were not yet tired of loitering, and the steam from the boiling and sizzling frying pans crowded and settled on the kitchen window. And although the rejuvenated soul was still visiting the fairy tale, the voices of the TV presenters were already losing their festive enthusiasm, and the sobering head was no, no, and was trying on the long-brimmed hat of future worries. In the afternoon, the low sun, like a red soccer ball, rolled along the edge of the blue frosty the sky, and if you stood up to the window and shielded yourself from it with your palm, you could accumulate in it the timid warmth of its smoldering rays. In the evening, the new moon, like a village accordion player, went out to the stars for a walk, heart-rendingly and festively grimaced, announcing the surroundings with a silver tenor, and, having exhausted his repertoire, gave way to the sun, hid in the far corner of the sky and turned pale there with envy.